what do i know about being a father, i hardly was ever a son
by degasballerina
Summary: Outside, it's the hottest day of the summer. Inside, Raoul ruminates on Christine's pregnancy and the upcoming birth of their child. Oneshot.


_**Author's Note: Just a few notes before you read. "Fru" and "Herr" are the Norwegian equivalents of "Mrs." and "Mr." I follow Leroux's canon, where Christine and Raoul eloped to Norway. Chloroform was used to ease the mother's pain during childbirth.**_

It would have been an unbearable day even if Christine was not a few weeks from giving birth. Normally, they could tolerate the heat, but the humidity which had made even the walls of their old cottage sweat, was impossible to withstand. All the windows were open (save the one in the bedroom that was forever jammed shut), but it was no use. No breeze ruffled the fine lace curtains that Mamma Valerius, God rest her soul, had given them as a wedding present. Outside, the birds half-heartedly chirped, while inside, Raoul and Christine sweltered. It had never been this warm, not in their three years of living abroad.

Poor Christine, Raoul thought, watching his bride try and fail to get comfortable on the sofa. The short, wispy hairs that normally framed her face were plastered to her forehead, and she groaned from the effort of attempting to get the pillows just right. Raoul had offered to help several times, but she insisted that he wouldn't understand how to do it properly. So instead he watched her, trying to hide his bemused expression as she let out little grunts and curses in Swedish. It was too hot to talk, or really do much of anything besides suffer.

Raoul was clad only in his drawers and cotton undershirt, Christine in a too small chemise that was taut against her rounded belly. They had long since lost any sense of blushing modesty that they had when they were newlyweds, although Raoul never grew tired of looking at her undressed. He still felt a twinge of guilt for delighting in her form, a remnant from his governess's lectures whenever she caught him looking too long at the unclothed painted women in his father's art collection.

Christine's "little bump", as they had called the child growing inside her in the early days of her pregnancy, was not quite little anymore, and hadn't been for a long time. She looked almost comical (though always beautiful, he was oft to remind her) considering how large her abdomen had gotten, and how funny she looked when she walked. Raoul knew what pregnancy looked like, between his two sisters, he had seven nephews and nieces. But Constance and Amalie-Louise had done everything to draw attention away from their stomachs, and even when Amalie-Louise had twins, Raoul couldn't recall her getting this big. He often wondered if she was having triplets.

Christine let out a soft sigh and rubbed her swollen breasts. She caught Raoul looking at her and, in spite of her discomfort, smiled at him.

"Less than a month," she gave her belly a pat. "I can't believe it. It feels so long and so soon."

"I know… we should start packing for Oslo-" Raoul paused when Christine groaned. "When it's not as hot out."

"The midwife here will be good enough," she said. "I don't know what some fancy doctor knows better than her."

"Christine, you know why I think it would be better," Raoul said, barely audible. When she made an attempt to apologize, he changed the subject. "Do you need another glass of water?"

She nodded, so he got up from his chair, pressing a quick kiss to her damp forehead. He had not fully confided in her. She knew he was afraid of the same fate befalling her as had happened to his mother. Raoul tried to keep thoughts like that out of his head, but it was hard. His whole life had been spent in the shadow of the woman he only knew through stories and the portrait that hung over the landing of the grand staircase. He had spent hours as a child, gazing at the image of the delicate blonde woman with the same upturned nose as him. What would she have thought of him? There were daguerreotypes too, but they were usually kept locked away. The only image of his mother he possessed with him in Norway was a miniature in a locket. She held a toddler Philippe on her lap, a small smile on her face. Raoul, it was said, was the spitting image of his brother when he was younger, and Raoul often wondered if that's what he would look like in his mother's arms. The same brooch that Philippe's chubby hand reached for in the daguerreotype now sat in Christine's chipped porcelain jewelry box, too grand to wear even to church. The one time she did, it invited too many questions. The floral burst of diamonds was worth more than a man in town might make in ten years, and still, Raoul could not bear to sell it.

The doctor in Oslo was an added expense and inconvenience, but Raoul could not put his trust in Fru Ellingsen, who had never even been to the city. Doctor Berg had only ten years experience, yes, but he had studied specifically to be an obstetrician, and delivered babies every day since then. It was only an hour's train ride to the city, and Christine could (and would easily) sleep most of the way. A nagging thought at the back of his head reminded him that his poor mother had even better medical care than his wife would have, and yet the midwives couldn't save her. Raoul would placate himself by remembering that his mother had been twenty years older than Christine was currently.

Raoul returned to Christine with both the requested glass of water and a piece of ice wrapped in a thin handkerchief. Raoul realized with half-hearted amusement that it was embroidered with his monogram. A leftover from his former life, when it seemed like her had endless silk handkerchiefs to give to his then-fiancée. Christine let out of moan of gratitude when he placed the cool cloth on her forehead.

"Shall we go again to the pond in a little bit?" he asked.

"Maybe. It's almost more effort than it's worth to walk down there. But I bet you'd like that, to go skinny dipping with me," she teased.

If Raoul blushed, it was impossible to tell, considering how red his face already was from the heat. Indeed, they had stripped down completely earlier in the day. Even on the hottest day of the year, the water was still frigid. Not as cold as the sea, on the Breton coastline or the one visible from their bedroom window. But the freshwater pond provided more privacy and a closer walk.

"Come rub my feet?" she implored him, her voice lilting in the way he could never say no to.

Well, nearly. Christine, even in pregnancy, still desired him like a woman desires her husband, just as much as before. He had always heard from his shipmate's bawdy conversations (ones he had always tried to avoid) that lovemaking— he refused to use any of the disrespectful terms he had heard— was more pleasurable for the man than the woman. Once they had gotten the mechanics correct, and Raoul had fumbled enough to give Christine her first release, he found that Christine was usually the one who initiated their intimate encounters. So, in the second month of pregnancy, when she had begged him to give himself to her, he declined to make love to her in the traditional way, for fear of hurting the baby. But she had been content enough when he administered to her needs in other ways.

She lifted her legs so he could sit on the end of the sofa. He took her foot in his hands and began to massage it.

"You know, we still don't have a baby name picked out…" she sighed, melting into his touch.

They had this conversation nearly every day. They would rack their brains for a good name, but could never decide. Usually, they would dissolve into giggles after outdoing each other in suggesting some increasingly outlandish names. If they didn't pick one soon, they'd be looking after Marie-Antoinette Dagny de Chagny soon.

Raoul refused to use a family name for the first name. Unless of course, Christine wanted to name a son after her father. Raoul had been named after his uncle, his mother's brother who had died just under six months before he was born. It had been Philippe who decided on the name, his father washing his hands of his newborn son scarcely moments after the countess had died. His mother had only held him a minute and a half before losing consciousness. Philippe had once told him that had Raoul been a girl, he would have been named Rosalie, after his mother.

No, it wouldn't do to have baby saddled with the legacy of some dead relative they would never meet. It had been a hard burden for Raoul to shoulder, and although he loved the sea and had always longed to join the navy, he sometimes had a sneaking suspicion that his family had deliberately cultivated that instinct in him. Uncle Raoul had been a great naval hero, who had died protecting France. His namesake was expected to do the same, besides the dying tragically part.

It had been Christine who suggested the name Philippe ("or Philippine, if she's a girl"). Raoul had laughed incredulously until he realized by her wounded expression that Christine was serious. How ironic it would have been for the child of a union that his brother had been so against should bear his name. Philippe had died to prevent Raoul from, in his opinion, throwing his life away, for why else would he have gone to the fifth cellar? It was Erik's hand who did it, he had little doubt, but Raoul might as well pulled him under the water himself. The only other man as passionate as Philippe about Raoul and Christine not marrying had, with one action, unwittingly removed another obstacle that would have prevented them from eloping. Oh, Christine had comforted him on those many sleepless nights, just as his sisters had assured him when he was a child. It was not his fault his mother had died. It was not his fault his brother had died. But surely, if Raoul had never been born, none of this would have happened. It was only Christine that had kept him from the brink of despair.

Christine, after listening to his reasoning, had no desire to give her child her father's name, at least as a first name. Jonas would make a fine middle name if they could come up with a suitable match to precede it. Nor did she intend to honor her mother in this way. Raoul had never known Christine's mother— she had died before her daughter was six, never truly recovering from the birth of a stillborn child a year and a half after Christine's birth. If Christine held any trauma over this, she never shared it, dodging the subject if Raoul had ever brought it up. Her life prior to meeting the Valeriuses was vague and confusing to her, the results of never staying in one place too long. The one constant was her father.

Raoul recognized he had been keeping Christine waiting by being deep in thought. She looked alarmed. He had never answered her.

"We don't have a baby name, that's right," he said. "How about… Lotte?" The corners of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile.

She lightly smacked his arm. "You say that every time. Too cheesy. There can be only one Little Lotte, and that's me, silly."

"How could I forget?" Raoul said in mock shame.

"I don't want my child named like some cheap romance novel character. I don't want an obviously meaningful name. Just because I like music, doesn't mean the baby should be… Aria."

"I think it's too hot to make any meaningful decisions. Why don't I run you a cold bath and get some more ice from the icebox?"

"That sounds good. What time is it?"

He checked his watch, an eighteenth birthday gift from his oldest sister. "Nearly supper time."

In France, it would be dusk by now, but here in Norway, the sun seemed to never set in the summer. It drove him crazy, but it was better than the endless nights of the winter.

"I hope you know by now that I'm in no state to cook. Not that I ever am," she laughed.

"Don't worry… it's too hot to cook anything anyways. I'll make us some sandwiches."

Raoul and Christine had come into their marriage with neither of them knowing how to do a lick of cooking. Raoul had never had the opportunity, and once Christine had begun to live with Professor and Mamma Valerius, she had servants to attend to her. He would never claim to be a chef, but at least he was competent. Christine would get too frustrated and give up easily, so Raoul found himself doing most of the cooking. He didn't mind it, it was soothing preparing the ingredients and watching the meal come together. If it made him less of a man, so be it. He didn't care what anyone thought.

As he stood over the kitchen sink, he peered out the window. He hadn't noticed how grey it had gotten. Finally, he mused, perhaps it might rain. No sooner had he had that thought before a clap of thunder rang out. A cool breeze rushed through the window and he sighed in relief.

In the parlor, he heard Christine let out a muttered curse.

"Christine, what happened?" he called, and when he heard no response, he rushed in.

"Don't come in, it's embarrassing," she whined.

It was too late. Raoul was already inside the room. He was unsure of what he was seeing at first. Christine was standing up, the bottom of her chemise soaked. He looked down and saw that she was standing in a puddle. She hid her face in her hands.

"Don't look at me, I've wet myself."

His breath stopped. "Christine, I think… I think your water broke."

The next half hour was a blur. After leaving Christine safely on the bed, he ran to the Olsens next door. He tried to explain the situation in his still broken Norwegian. Herr Olsen made some remark about passing out cigars, and Raoul could not even feign a laugh. After being assured that their oldest son would run to get Fru Ellingsen, he returned home. There would be no trip to Oslo after all.

He had the queer feeling of being outside of his own body. He knew he was running through the rain. But it was as if someone else was doing it, he was seeing it in a stage play, watching some oddly familiar man burst through the door to comfort his wife.

Ever since Christine had told him she was pregnant, he had looked at the day when he would become a father with anxiety. He was sure he would be a nervous wreck, pacing outside the room, helpless. It was the unknown he feared, it was almost as if he would prefer to watch bad things happened than just hear them and speculate what was going on. Maybe his experiences in Paris had taught him that. How ironic that he anticipated being out of control, when instead he found himself strangely serene, holding a cold compress to Christine's forehead as though everything was fine, that she was only a bit under the weather.

Fru Ellingsen arrived and ordered Raoul out of the room. He tried to comply but Christine would not allow her hand to be wrenched out of his. He realized that she had been holding it so tightly that her nails had dug into his skin hard enough to draw blood. She begged him to stay and he could never refuse her.

Fru Ellingsen was a brusque, stocky woman, who probably had the strength to physically throw him out of the room herself. But she relented, especially when she heard Christine would refuse chloroform. Christine's frantic explanation for her fear of the drug sounded like the ravings of a lunatic to everyone except Raoul. It didn't help that she kept referring to the man who had used it on her as "the angel". She insisted she wouldn't go into that darkness again. Raoul realized he couldn't explain the whole situation in under thirty seconds, so he merely said that she had a bad reaction the last time it was used.

Raoul was allowed to remain under the condition of staying out of the way. He sat beside the bed, stroking her head with one hand while she practically tore the skin on his left arm to ribbons. He gave no thought to incipient birth of his child, he focused solely on consoling his wife. She seemed to not be in control of her senses, thrashing about wildly and cursing at Raoul in a strange mixture of Swedish and French.

"Oh, Raoul," she sobbed. "How could you have done this to me, you bastard? You had your fun all those months ago and I'm the one who has to deal with the consequences!"

Her speech dissolved into something he could only partially understand. He could understand Norwegian better than he could speak it, and Swedish was close enough. Something about his honor as a Chagny and as a man. Raoul could not take it personally, he already felt guilty enough that she was the one who had to be uncomfortable for nine months. He was willing to take her insults and her attack on his arm if it would mean a lesser degree of pain for her, no matter how small.

Hanna, the young woman who Christine taught piano to on Thursdays, was working as the midwife's assistant. She offered the chloroform again, which only incensed Christine more. The girl seemed quite frightened by Christine's outburst, Raoul would find out later that this was the first birth she had attended. She came over to Raoul and whispered something in his ear that he barely registered. When she looked at him expectantly, he realized she had given him the option of having her drugged against her will. They would defer to him as her husband.

Raoul had not felt such horror in a long time. "Christine is my wife, not my property," he shook with anger. "If she does not want chloroform, she will not have it. If she changes her mind, I will support her." There was no hesitation in his voice, usually, when he tried to say something that complex in Norwegian, his speech was halting and unsure.

Every minute that Christine was in anguish felt like hours. He never thought he would hear her cry like that again. Even on the nights when she woke up screaming from a nightmare, she did not completely take leave of her senses, she had some semblance of control. He could only quietly reassure her that it would be over soon, they would have a child, and it would be worth it. He wondered if she would finally break down enough to budge on any sort of painkiller. Of course, he would not encourage her one way or another. As much as he wanted to see her find relief, he knew she would hate herself later for budging on her principles. And selfishly, Raoul didn't want to be alone with only these two women, practically strangers, agonizing over whether or not Christine would wake up again.

The contractions were coming faster and faster; Raoul was tasked with keeping count. He felt some sort of sense of purpose to be doing something to help. Christine abandoned taking her misery out on his hand, she would not even allow Raoul to touch her. Her skin was slick with perspiration and tears, each push exerting her more than the last. He was barely holding it together, but he had to be strong for his poor wife. It would do no good for both of them to go to pieces.

The late Countess de Chagny had labored for two days to bring Raoul into the world, her son's wife in only under two hours. It seemed like one moment Christine's agony had reached its peak, and the next she was panting softly as their child let out their first cries.

Raoul's latent hysteria had bubbled under the surface of his calm demeanor. The invisible barrier that had kept him from breaking down had broken, and now he sought Christine's comfort, weeping. She gave him a weary smile.

"How are you feeling? Christine?"

"Tired. And sore," she sighed. "But I did it."

"You did. You were so brave," he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Would you like to hold your daughter, Christine?" said Fru Ellingsen, all the gruffness was gone out of her voice.

"Daughter?" Raoul asked, dizzy. Whenever he had speculated on the gender of their baby, it had seemed too abstract to picture whether he would have a son or daughter.

Christine was handed a squirming bundle. A pink face peered up at them with clear blue eyes.

"Hi, baby," cooed Christine. "Nice to meet you."

Raoul reached over to touch his daughter's cheek. Her skin was so soft and warm, her face so round. He gasped as a little hand grabbed his finger. She had perfect, tiny fingernails on her dainty little hands. Not a doll, but a living, breathing, flesh and blood human.

"Oh, she loves her Papa already," Christine whispered. "Doesn't she?"

Raoul felt a warmth radiating from his insides. He was a father. The little creature with damp blonde curls had his nose. His worries melted away as Christine allowed him to hold the baby himself. She was so heavy for how small she was!

"Do you have a name for her?" asked Hanna, who was standing a safe distance away, in case Christine got furious with her again.

"No," Christine laughed. "We thought we'd have more time to decide. Thank you, Hanna, I'm sorry I… snapped at you."

Hanna nodded with a warm smile. "You needn't apologize." She left the room to give them privacy.

"She looks like her mother," said Raoul, looking up from lovingly gazing at his child.

"I think more like her father," Christine stroked the baby's hair. "She's got the Chagny nose. Not a vicomte after all."

"Good. I've given all that up and I'd give it up again a thousand more times. This child will have none of those worries."

He had fretted in the past about not being able to give his family the things he had grown up with. He was perfectly happy living in obscurity with only rare luxuries, but he wished he could give Christine silken sheets and down pillows and carriage rides and fine jewels. But at this moment, he could not find it in himself to give one iota about things like that. They had a healthy daughter and each other. What more could they ever need?

The name could come later, for now, the new family would rest. The rain poured down on the roof, lulling mother and child to sleep. Raoul took his place on the bed, he could not sleep. He didn't want to miss a moment. In just a few hours, his life had changed forever. And he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
